


Tea at the Edge of the World

by Nope



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-04
Updated: 2003-03-04
Packaged: 2018-10-25 08:30:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10760523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nope/pseuds/Nope
Summary: There's a lampost growing in the forest, little Lucy Pevensie is Queen, and everything falls apart and together.





	Tea at the Edge of the World

She slipped from the Court at the first moment etiquette allowed. Let wise Peter and just Edmund and pretty Susan deal with fishing disputes; Cair Paravel was too bright for this Queen's tastes today. All that white stone and cool marble, those long corridors, ivory roofs, wide sunlit spaces. She'd had enough of it, enough of cleanliness and goodliness, of cheer and kindness, bravery and optimism. She'd had cheer enough for the world and it was killing her. 

It'd been easier to be valiant when they'd an enemy to fight; easier to be bright and brave with a bow in her hand and clear lines drawn in the dust. Now it was all suitors and politics, eyes all over her like fingers. It was uncomforting revelry repeated till the days were just noise, blurred faces to smile at, words to echo, hands to avoid. It was standing on steps at dawn and after midnight, Paravel's empty window eyes behind her and, in front, a vast, empty ocean that fell away forever to where the Emperor-over-the-Sea watched always from beyond the edge of the world. 

No one was expected in the stables at this early hour, and it took the stable-hands a moment to look up from their cards and notice her. Reprimands would slow her down, so she dug out something like a smile and tried it on for size. They did not bow to her as they would to Peter, nor fawn as they would to Susan, nor invite her to join their game as they would Edmund. The youngest of them stepped away from the table, a junior centaur on still uncertain hooves, gave a smile whose genuineness shamed her own, and asked: 

"Has the High King decided to hunt after all, your Majesty?" 

"While our fair brother concerns himself with weighty affairs of state, Gregor, we find a need for some air." 

"It's Tomas." At her look, the centaur blushed prettily and dropped his gaze. "Gregor is my father, your Majesty." 

"Of course: our apologies, young Tomas. You greatly have the look of your father about you." And the Queen wondered how it had come to this, that even their friends had children born and grown? How had so much time passed so quickly? She found her voice again, asked "He fares well, we trust?" 

"He is in good health, your Majesty." Tomas moved towards the stalls. "You wished a horse saddled?" 

She picked a dappled mare -- a dumb beast from far southern Calormen, not a talking steed, not today -- and walked the horse out into the courtyard, holding herself against impatient shifting as the centaur adjusted the saddle so it would neither slip nor impede movement and fixed the stirrups to her liking. A nod and thanks managed, the Queen took the reins in her hand and, ducking unnecessarily under the raised portcullis, guided her ride across the castle bridge, breaking into a trot on the road. 

* * *

Riding side-saddle restricted speed but she kept her dagger with her always and her skirts were no match for an unfettered blade; now able to move and firmly seated, the Queen coaxed a gallop from the mare. The long grass swallowed hoof beats, so that the only sound of their passing was a rustling whisper. If she had turned back in her saddle, she could have just made out the Tower of the Owls reaching out of the trees for the sky; but she did not. The Great River rushed burbling back along her path. She rode without purpose, save to ride, and when her mount flagged and slowed she cruelly kicked in her heels till they regained the speed. Minutes turned into hours and the land unfolded beneath them. 

Beruna came up, faster than expected, and she barely hesitated before swinging away from the village and the people and the ford, from the memories of battles distant in time if not space. The river receded, fading quickly from sight and barely slower from hearing. On her left, rustling whispers rushed through the leafy edges of the Western Woods. To her right, hills rolled lazily towards distant mountains. In front, a tributary of the Great River came up without warning. The mare leant into her stride, the Queen into her mount's neck, and together they charged the water, dashing from shore to shore in a bracing bracken spray. Disregarding reins, the Queen entwined her fingers in coarse hair and urged the mare upwards and inwards, encouraging speed with her heels. 

Faster and faster they rode, 'til all but the loudest of sounds were drowned beneath the steady thundering of hooves and their heavy breaths. Faster and faster, till stone and mud and grass and water blurred indistinguishably into each other. Faster and faster, towards a horizon dissolving into streaming tears that came even after the Queen closed her eyes, still came as she ducked her head against her hands and the mare's neck, out of the wind of their passing; came as, blind, she urged her horse ever onwards. 

From somewhere far behind came an echoing rumble, clear sky thunder or the distant roar of lions. The Queen dug in her heels, swinging west towards the trees. The sun, directly overhead, was too bright. She was suffocating in space. There was too much of it, a wide roaring emptiness that filled everything and left it bare, stripped colour from the world and left people stick figures stumbling in the mud. Better to be in the trees, to lose herself in the tight spaces between darkly shimmering greens and walls of sky scraping brown, than out here in the wide wild hollow country. 

The woods came up hard and, as she ducked away from a branch that left a stinging line across her cheek, a second almost knocked her from her seat. The mare shied away, refusing to go deeper, running parallel to the tree line against The Queen's urging. Again and again, the Queen turned her, but the mare wouldn't take a step closer, 'til finally the Queen grabbed two strong handfuls of mane and tugged as hard as she could. The mare squealed, rearing up, and the Queen half dismounted, half fell as they returned to earth and, stumbling, managed a few steps between the trees before her knees gave and she slumped to her hands in the shadowed undergrowth, fast gasping for breath in a world fading into green grey. 

The mare slowed, paced, stopped. Steam rose from her sweat slicked coat. 

* * *

The world came back to the Queen by degrees. Her blood, loud in her ears. Gasps becoming breaths, longer, slower. Her shadow on the grass. The green blades between her fingers. A strand of horsehair caught on her rings, on dull silver and glassy sapphires, on the signet's white lion rampant. Ermine cuffs, bunched silk. Her own blonde curls fell off her shoulders and swung freely at her eyes. Faint salt and copper on her tongue. She touched her face. Fingers came away crimson speckled. The cut on her cheek, leaking down to her lips. 

The Queen sat up, wiping her lips clean on the back of her hand, and looked around her. Growth had returned to the trees with the breaking of eternal winter and now where once there had been clear snowy paths mighty boughs filled the green spaces. In the brightness behind her, she could hear the mare shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. In front, the woods sounded deep, like an empty well. She followed her shadow into their embrace. 

There were no animal sounds, no sleepy owls or scuttling squirrels or peeping robins, just the slow rustle of the trembling trees. Broken sunlight fell around her, rained down through the cracks in the wood roof and scattered on the ground in tiny shards. She walked where the trees took her, brushing her fingers against warm, rough bark and turning into the empty spaces between. Stray branches plucked at her skirts. Leaves crackled beneath her. 

Between the trees, the Queen thought for a moment that she caught a glimpse of white-gold fur, but there was no sound of movement and, when she herself moved that way, no sight either. The trees were a little further apart here and the path easier, so she headed forward rather than back, still trailing fingers against bark until, all of a sudden, the wood beneath her fingers was cold and hard, black and dead, and not, she realised, wood at all. The Queen looked up. 

Why, she thought, it's iron. An iron lantern. And a little voice inside said, lamppost, it's a lamppost. 

The urge to walk took her again, stronger now; putting her back to the lamppost she set off. At each step she felt oddly lighter, but slower, like walking into the tide, and it seemed as if the trees were stretching, closing in around her, a blur of green needles in a strong and icy wind. Her hands moved, almost of their own accord, to tug nervously at her pigtails. The fir scent was thick around her now, heavy on the air. She took a step, another, cotton dress rustling against low hanging branches, and darkness overtook her, sudden roof, like the trees had swallowed the sun. 

Ahead, a way off still, she could make out a chink of light, like a door just barely open. There was a sound around her now, a deep, slow rumbling more felt than heard. It made her think, suddenly, of Professor Kirke's gramophone winding down, a stretched, distant bass of voices echoing out of the trumpet. Another step forward and she had to put out her hands to keep from stumbling. The trees blurred around her, the noise got higher and faster, and the pressure against her grew, till it was all she could do to move. There was a shape of something beyond the crack of light and she felt on the edge of something of something momentous, miraculous, if she could only just take that one last step. 

Her outstretched fingers briefly slipped across fur. 

And she thought: there's a lamppost growing in the forest and little Lucy Pevensie is Queen; and on the other side of that door is, is... 

It was too much. Lucy's hands shook; her arms and legs too. Her feet slipped back a step, another, before the fear took her, a cold ripple in her skin from which Lucy recoiled, turning on the spot and racing back as fast as her legs would take her. And where before it seemed as if the world itself had resisted her, now it aided her flight, expelled her back out into dappled moonlight in a shower of green needles and a hot rush of air like the exhaled breath of some mighty beast. 

She knelt there for a while, till the shaking had past, and had been just about to regain her feet when a startled voice exclaimed "Goodness gracious me!" and she looked up to find she was no longer alone. 

A curious yet familiar form was walking towards her out of the trees, a man of her own height with rather reddish skin, a short pointed beard, curly hair, horns, a tail and black furred legs that ended in hoofs instead of feet. 

"Oh, excuse me," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you, but--" 

"Mr Tumnus?" said Lucy, for it was he; but he seemed older than she remembered, and he was looking at her in some confusion. She pushed herself to her feet and came forward to meet him. 

"I'm sorry, I can't quite see you... Have we--" he began, then broke off as recognition flickered in his eyes, and asked, quietly and unsure, "Miss Lucy?" 

"I think -- did I have a horse?" asked Lucy, coming to a halt almost touching the Faun, and looked around. "There was something..." 

"Oh! Why, for a moment there I thought you were still a little--" Tumnus shook his head, as if to clear it. "But, your Majesty! What are you doing here, at such an hour, alone in the woods?" 

"Am I?" asked Lucy, in some confusion. 

"Are you what?" 

"Your Majesty?" 

"But of course!" exclaimed Tumnus, his voice and face sure now. "You are her Imperial Majesty, Lucy the Valiant, Queen of Narnia, Chatelaine of Cair Paravel, Empress of the Lone Islands--" He paused suddenly, surprise and something she couldn't readily identify flashing in his eyes. "Oh! Well, listen to me going on, when there you are, shivering in the cold! I'm a bad faun! Why--" 

"Oh, no," said Lucy, hurrying to take his hand. "You're the best Faun in the whole of--" 

Tumnus blushed, smiling and looking away, and missed Lucy's frown, like there was a word on the tip of her tongue that she just couldn't quite remember. He patted her hand, then took her arm in his. 

"Why don't you come and have tea with me?" he asked. "I have a wood fire burning to keep off the night chill. You'll soon warm up." 

* * *

Mr Tumnus's cave showed few signs of the passing years. The same reddish stone, the same slightly threadbare carpet, the same two chairs. A merry little wood fire burned under the same mantelpiece supporting the same small collection of ornaments, the same small clock, the same lamp; under the same coolly glaring portrait. Perhaps a few more books had been squeezed onto the shelf. Perhaps a few of the more chipped plates had been replaced in the dresser. And the bedroom door was open whereas before it had been closed. And she noticed now that when she stood he was a head shorter than her. But otherwise, this time was just like the first time. 

The fire crackled and roared and, above it, the kettle hissed and whistled. Lucy perched on her chair, arms wrapped around herself, losing her thoughts in the flames, only half-aware of Tumnus' concerned eyes watching her over his honey-spread toast. She'd said little more than "yes" and "no" and "thank you" since they had come inside. 

"Are you sure you won't have some toast? Some sardines? A boiled egg perhaps? A small piece of cake?" 

Lucy silently shook her head. Tumnus sighed to himself, rose from his seat and went to his dresser. 

"It's fortunate that we should run into one another." He took something from the drawer and returned, sitting once more before leaning forward and holding it out to her. "While I was cleaning the other day, I came across something I meant to show you." 

"What is this?" 

"Why, it's your handkerchief, your Majesty. You gave it to me when first we met." 

"And you gave it to Mr Beaver to-- to--" Lucy tried to smile but it came out wrong. "Oh, Mr Tumnus. I've been ever so beastly! That poor mare! I've--" Her eyes were suddenly hot and prickling; she hid them in the small square of white lace. 

A short silence was broken by the scrape of a chair, and then a trembling hand began softly stroking her hair. Her thoughts slipped away from her. Memories of unidentifiable fears collapsed under the weight of more understandable emotions and she exhaled a little shakily and curled into his heat, taking comfort in the strong arms that encircled her. She could feel him breathing against her cheek and sighed, looking up. Tumnus brushed a long strand of hair away from her face, smiling and saying: 

"I think you're far too kind to ever be beastly." 

"Oh, but hang it all, I'm not," Lucy contradicted. "Really, Mr Tumnus--" 

"Why," said the Faun, "you're the kindest, sweetest, happiest person I know." 

"I'm not sure we have a right to happiness," murmured Lucy into his chest. "What with the War and all." 

"War?" asked Tumnus. "Are there remnants of the White Witch's army left?" 

"No, I meant--" She frowned. 

"What?" prompted Tumnus, still stroking her hair. 

"I'm not entirely sure," she admitted, silk whispering as she shifted tighter against him, fingers curling against his skin. "Mr Tumnus... can I ask you something." 

"Anything, your Majesty." 

"I meant to ask before, but we got caught up in events and I never found a moment..." She brushed her fingers against his fur. "What was it like?" 

"Like, your Majesty?" 

"Being stone, we mean." Tumnus stiffened against her, and she moved to catch his eye, suddenly contrite. "You don't have to answer if--" 

"It was cold," he said quietly. "Dark too. And like neither sleeping nor waking, but a little like both." He reached out to brush her cheek with the back of his hand. "And then, all at once, there was a warmth like the first sun of summer, and light, and your pretty face smiling at me." 

"And Susan, of course," she said, sitting up. 

"And Queen Susan," agreed Tumnus, smiling quizzically. 

"You travelled to Archenland with our sister," said the Queen, smoothing out her skirts, suddenly hyperaware of the poor state of her attire. 

"And with your brother, King Edmund," said Tumnus, coming around to kneel before her and taking her hand in his. 

"Our sister is very beautiful." 

"She has many suitors." Tumnus tilted his head up to smile at her. "As do you, your Majesty." 

"Who could want me?" she asked plaintively. 

"Who couldn't?" asked Tumnus, sounding genuinely surprised, and the Queen felt a smile on her lips. 

"Even you?" she asked. 

"Especially me," he said, and kissed her hand. 

* * *

After a while the kettle, still slung over the fire, boiled dry. Neither noticed.


End file.
